


The Woes of Meghan Vael

by Aarlauna_Rose



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Friend Fiction, Gossip, Humor, Orlesians, Pirates, Short, Unrequited Lust, Wine, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:24:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17666873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aarlauna_Rose/pseuds/Aarlauna_Rose
Summary: Written as a challenge for an OC Application. Three short stories about Meghan Vael.





	1. Who Framed Sorcha Taggart?

The loud clatter of iron woke her, but she didn’t have a chance to even open her eyes before the eye watering pain nearly shattered her skull. Maker’s soggy balls, her head hadn’t ached like this in a long time. She curled into a tight ball and took slow breaths through clenched teeth. What had she been drinking? The sound of laughter next to her almost made her jump out of her skin. 

“I don’t know what poison you prefer, serah, but whatever it was, it chewed you up and spat you out a bronto’s ass.” 

Meghan turned to look at the source of that rude, extremely grating voice. A dwarf sat beside her, well dressed, with a short, neatly trimmed beard. She glared at him, all the while slowly pulling herself to a sitting position, no matter that her head felt like a three ton rock on her head. Slowly, that stone swiveled to the right, and the left, revealing to her the far too familiar confines of a jail cell. 

“All right then, if you’re so damn clever then how’d I end up here?” 

A suave smile answered her, along with another chuckle. “Nothing’s for free, serah.” 

“Are you mad? Do I look like I’ve got any coin on me?” 

“No, but I’m sure you’ve got friends who’ll be looking for you.” 

Her glare darkened. “Oh, aye, and they won’t look kindly on the extortionist sitting next to me, I promise you that.” His smile didn’t budge, so after a long moment she growled in frustration. “Fine, you’ll get your gold, just tell me what happened.” 

The dwarf sat up straight, pointedly offering his hand. “That’s not how this works. Let’s be a bit more civil, shall we? Wouldn’t want to start off our relationship on the wrong foot. My name is Lumor Byron.” 

Suddenly, she found herself struggling with the sudden urge to punch him in the face. Cocky bastard. But she didn’t have much of a choice, so she shook his hand shortly, pulling back as soon as possible. “Sorcha Taggart. Now talk.” 

Lumor sat back with an exaggerated sigh. “No manners left in today’s youth. Such a pity. There used to be standards.” One more sigh, and he continued. “From what I heard between the guards, they found you in the stables outside the Inn. Out cold and covered in vomit.” 

Meghan’s shoulders relaxed just a bit. “Oh, well, that’s not--”

“--Next to a woman with her insides cut out.” 

“......Oh.” Eyes wide, Meghan was silent for a few minutes, letting that sink in. “Look, Lumor, I didn’t kill anyone. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t. I don’t tend to go after women unless they try to kill me first.” 

He folded his hands in his lap, looking up at her as if critiquing her. “So what do you remember?” 

She shook her head. “I... I was playing cards. Pretty much forced my way in the game, kept sweet talkin’ the group leader so he wouldn’t see me cheating. ‘Bout the third round things got... swimmy. Too swimmy. I fell over. That’s it. Andraste’s arse, my head hurts. Worst whiskey I’ve ever choked down.” 

Lumor contemplated that for a moment. “You sure it was whiskey? Didn’t taste strange to you?” 

About to dismiss the idea offhand, Meghan suddenly did recall something. Something bitter. At the time she’d assumed it was bile-- she’d been drinking long enough. And now she was thinking of it, that bitterness had seemed familiar... It took her a few minutes, but when she placed it, her eyebrows snapped down. “Oh, that bastard.” 

Meghan clung to the wall, forcing her watery arms to pull up her to her feet inch by inch. Then she staggered to the bars, and called to the lone guard on patrol-- young kid. Good. Easy to scare. “Oy-- you! C’mere! You locked me up with a madman! He’s got a shiv!” 

To her surprise, the kid actually hurried over. Child’s play. As soon as he was close Meghan grabbed him, twisting the fabric at the collar of his uniform to pull him right up against the bars. 

“Good boy. Now, pay attention.” Meghan breathed in his face, and the guard immediately turned his head, gagging. “Tell me, that smell like soldier’s bane to you?” 

“I-- I don’t know--” 

“Then check it again!” Meghan breathed at him once more, and this time, the guard looked like he might be sick. “What does that smell like to you?” 

He glanced at her, his head still turned to the side. “It... It smells like you... h-had a... a hard night. Serah.” 

She laughed bitterly, pressing as close as the bars allowed. “Oh, aye. I did. And you’re going to run off and tell the Captain of the Guard that I was dosed--” Her voice lowered, nothing but menace. “--Or you’re gonna stay right here, and we’ll have a nice, long conversation. Y’ken?”

Overwhelmed by the stench of whiskey and vomit, the guard nodded enthusiastically. “Yes-- yes, Serah! Right away!” 

“Off you go, then.” Meghan released him, and he stumbled backward, gagging once more. Just one look at her was all it took, and then he bolted for the door. She’d have laughed at the terror on his face if she weren’t in so much pain. As it was, Lumor laughed enough for both of them, and she slid to the ground beside him with a groan.

“Oh, that was well worth my time, Serah. Thank you.” He got to his feet, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. “Most entertaining questioning I’ve done in years.” 

Meghan blinked. “Wait-- you’re--” 

“Guard-Captain, yes. I tend to get more honest answers out of people like this. Unorthodox, perhaps, but it’s effective.” He took advantage of her shock to unlock the door and let himself out, locking it again with a swift, practiced motion before she could even get halfway off the ground. “I look forward to the trial, Serah Taggart.” With that, he gave her a mock salute, and followed after the guard. 

Long seconds passed as Meghan stood there, gaping. Her mind was struggling to process all of that, and at the end of it, there was only one phrase that seemed appropriate, and she muttered it as she slumped to the floor yet again. 

“Maker’s soggy balls.”


	2. Friend Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a challenge for an OC Application. Three short stories about Meghan Vael.

It’s just another night at the Hanged Man, after a hard day of following one or both of the Hawkes all over Kirkwall. The drink may be little better than watered down piss, but Varric has gained enough tenure to warrant the decent drink. He’s fairly certain that he’s dumped at least a quarter of his fortune into this place by now, so really, it was the least they could do.

He’s reached the stage of pleasantly buzzed, and as always, the good company and pleasant atmosphere had encouraged him to lead into a story. This was one of his favorites, and he has Rivaini and Blondie all lined up for the big finish. Varric grins, leaning forward in his seat.

“And so then Caeryn looks over at the Sergeant with this look of complete and utter disbelief and says, ‘What dy’a mean the brisket isn’t free? He said the cows were from the Anderfels!’” 

Isabela cackles, throwing her head back unabashedly, already well into drunk. It was a natural consequence of spending all day in the dingy, gritty tavern she called home, and while it’s nothing comparable to having her ship, for now, it’s enough. She takes another swig of the ale-- not the usual swill, thanks to being Varric’s company for the night-- and gives her friend a satisfied grin, leaning back in her chair. 

“You think that’s interesting, wait until I tell you my story.” Isabela has a few, but by now he’s heard all of them, as she’s often complained. As she suspected, he raises an eyebrow, already intrigued. “I heard a tale of a drunken wench in Jader that sounded a lot like our old friend... you know, the one with that voice. And other... delightful assets.” She looks wistful at the thought, sighing as if she’d suffered some great tragedy. “Such a wasted opportunity, that one.” 

 

Anders laughs along with Isabela as Varric finishes his story with the usual flourish of humour. H’s just considering rising to head home when Isabela stays the impulse with her declaration. Her stories never fail to be highly interesting, so he lifts his cup instead. His brow furrows when she gives such cryptic description, however, and he shakes his head as a frown briefly tugs at his lips before a smirk tilts them.

“That could describe a lot of people, considering the tales you both tell.”

Varric’s brow furrows as he tries to place who Isabela is talking about. It’s her heart-heavy sigh that gives it away, and he looks at her in surprise. “Wait-- you can’t mean--” 

“I do mean. Dearest ‘Sorcha’ is out causing trouble again. Found herself a new crew and everything. Captain Aldrich, the one who made his fortune with that whole... Antivan thing.” 

Anders pauses, the stories of the woman-who-got-away flashing through his mind. Isabela had wanted her with blazing passion and never got a chance. Her descriptions of the woman are in the most glowing terms. Well, by Isabela’s sensibility, anyway. The wistful pout makes sense in that context, and his curiosity nearly eats him alive. 

“What happened?” An innocent enough question, surely. No trace of self-interest, of course.

That earns him a saucy smile, and Isabela leans forward slowly to give him a very purposeful and generous view of her breasts. “Oh, that’s right. You actually read those silly stories, don’t you, sweet thing? Well, since you’re such a loyal reader, perhaps I should tell you something about our friend that’s far more interesting than a drunken brawl.” 

“Ah... Rivaini. Not sure that’s your story to tell.” 

“Perhaps, but I told you. Besides, if anyone can keep a secret, it’s our spirit-carrying, friendly neighborhood apostate.” She laughs again. “So, the question isn’t if you can keep it secret, but if you will. What do you say, Anders?” 

Anders spreads his hands, arching a brow in near disbelief that she would even ask, considering who she’s talking to.

“I wouldn’t be a very good apostate if I didn’t learn very well how to use my tongue wisely.” A wolfish grin grows as he holds her gaze, never afraid to meet her intensity.

Varric snorts, reaching for his mug. “Should I give you two some privacy, or do I get to see the look on Blondie’s face after the big reveal?” 

“Oh, stay. I’m not going to pounce on his lap and start tearing those questionably fashionable robes off... at least not without an invitation.” She winks at him before sitting more comfortably in her chair, and takes another drink before continuing. “So, you read the story. Feisty, curvy little thing from Starkhaven, could drink a bucket of whiskey and still recite the Chant, forward and back. Full, voluptuous lips, eyes like amber, always ready with a joke or a clever prank.” Her eyes go distant again for a moment, eliciting another sigh. 

And there she goes again, off on a tangent she’ll likely stay on if he doesn’t redirect things. “Pretty sure he read the book, Rivaini. Get to the part after the swooning, would you?” 

Isabela gives him a mock glare, but continues. “Only ran with her a short while, to get her back on her feet. But somewhere in Nevarra, she almost got a dagger buried in her back. Turns out there was some kind of scuffle, a couple of bounty hunters competing to nab her, and things got a bit... dicey. Took some convincing, but I managed to charm some answers out of her. Dear ‘Sorcha’ was on the run-- something out of a bloody storybook. The wily, crass spoken woman of my dreams was none other than the missing princess of Starkhaven.” 

Anders catches her wink but sits back amused. It’s all right in front of Varric--for all the man’s tale-spinning, he doesn’t actually judge or patronize, nor does he pass on things he shouldn’t. Besides, Isabela’s immediate rhapsodizing about “Sorcha” is enough to damp whatever spark of interest might have briefly lit. He listens to a much more sobering story than he’s used to hearing, when this woman is involved, but Isabela’s last statement brings him to an abrupt halt. There’s a pause before he speaks, unsure of whether to take her seriously, or by how much, at first, but the look on Isabela’s face isn’t one he sees often. She must be telling the truth.

“Well... I suppose it makes sense that it might take a princess to turn the head of a queen. I’ll drink to that.” He raises his cup in salute to Isabela. “What do you intend to do?”

The look that one earns him has far more promise and intent behind it. He’s gone and done it now-- she’ll have him down to his boots and his birthing day suit before the night is up, so help her. She’d suggest Wicked Grace, but it’s far more likely she’d be the one disrobed. That could work just as well, come to think of it. “Do? Perhaps you could be more... specific.” 

Anders doesn’t miss that look and he grins again, but he knows, and so does she, that it wasn’t what he was talking about. Her seemingly innocent question is decidedly anything but.

“With the information, sweetheart. I thought that was clear, but if you have other questions you thought I was asking, I’m interested to hear what they were.” The grin still hasn’t left him. He’s pretty sure she’s going to eat him alive more than his curiosity tends to. Nobody ever accused him of not being a cat, after all.

“Right, that’s my cue to order another round.” Varric stands, walking to his door with only a slightly wobbly gait, but stops to look back before heading down to Nora. “I’ll knock first.” He shuts the door behind him, mostly joking, but he’s absolutely certain the temperature in there was rising at an uncomfortable rate. What the blazes had they put in the wine? 

Oh, yes, that’s what she likes to hear, and she rises from her seat to slink over to him and settle on his lap, straddling him and leaning in close. “I thought that would have been obvious, sweet thing.” She places her hands on his chest, cursing all the damn feathers between her and that broad expanse of warm, smooth skin. She leans closer, her eyes locked to his, her voice soft as velvet. “I intend to do absolutely nothing. She’s free, and living her life as she sees fit. I can hardly begrudge her for running away. I’m sure you can relate, in a sense. Locked up, ordered around, mistreated and avowed to silence. Most of the world thinks she’s dead, and that’s how it’ll stay. And maybe if I’m very, very lucky, I’ll cross paths with her again. I doubt she’d appreciate it if I told her dear brother she was alive, now would she?” 

From the moment she rises, he knows he’s in trouble. Of a sort. He sits absolutely still as she settles her weight on him, watching her intently. He knows her, and he’s not completely taken in, drink or no.

“You tend to be one of the luckiest women I’ve ever met, Isabela,” he murmurs in return, keeping her gaze, but he’s not going to start anything with Varric undoubtedly moments from return. Not here, not now, but she’s a daring temptress and she knows it. “And once you set your mind to something, you tend to get it. Not telling Sebastian where to throw his wet blanket is a good start, I’m sure.”

Isabela opens her mouth to reply-- has she got a good one for that-- but a loud knock on the door announces Varric’s arrival, and she sighs. “Perhaps we can pick this up later, hmm?” She brushes her thumb across his lower lip with a mischievous, heated look, then stands, projecting her voice towards the door. “You’re not interrupting. Sadly.” 

Varric enters with Nora close behind him, and she has the old mugs cleared and replaced with businesslike efficiency, no doubt encouraged by the rather generous tip he’d given her earlier. He resumes his seat, waiting to speak until the door is firmly shut again. “So, what’d I miss? Anything I want to know?” 

“Nothing terribly exciting. How about a game of Wicked Grace? I’ll even let Anders deal in.” 

Anders grins at her dismissal of their brief interlude that will most likely lead to a night at the Blooming Rose. If she’s suggesting they play Wicked Grace with him, he’s willing to bet she’s looking for a reason to be an exhibitionist tonight. Definitely the Blooming Rose. Hopefully, she’ll be thinking of him, and not some apparently perfect pirate princess... and if she isn’t... well, he’ll take care of that.

“I think Lady Fortune smiles on me tonight.” He looks at Varric, then Isabela, before he gestures to the table. “What do you say? Care to make a wager?”

Isabela pulls a deck of cards seemingly out of nowhere and places them on the table, looking at him like a lioness about to pounce. 

“Oh, do I ever.”


	3. It's All Orlesian to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a challenge for an OC Application. Three short stories about Meghan Vael.

Meghan looked over her glass at the woman in front of her, fairly certain that she’d just tried to clear her throat, or perhaps cough something up. But then again, she was Orlesian, so it could be hard to tell. 

“Uh... excuse me? I didn’t quite... catch that.” 

The woman gave her a painfully sweet smile, one of those that made it very clear that she was thinking of Meghan as a complete idiot, and the drawn out way she spoke only confirmed it.

“I said that this vintage is called L'Eau Rouge du Désespoir, and is very highly regarded in Southern Orlais. I would be most interested to hear your opinion on the matter, Comtesse Boivin.” 

Her own smile was brittle, wide and painful and very forced. “Of course. My apologies... Marquise...?” She’s pretty sure it was Marquise. Before she could stumble over her tongue anymore, she took a drink-- far too much of one, if that disgusted look was any indication. Then she fumbled to come up with something other than her initial reaction, which was something along the lines of ‘tasteless, bitter, and extremely pretentious considering the price’. “Hmm, well...” No way about it, she was gonna have to bullshit her way through this. And the best way to lie was to be confident about it, so she straightened her back and looked like she was deep in thought for a moment. 

“Well, it’s no L'Agonie Pourprée, but it has the same allure as a proper Le Regret d'un Matin d'Hiver.” Her Orlesian is proper enough, at least-- one small thing to thank her Grandmother for. “It certainly carries the aroma of the earth of origin, with a strong... balsamic finish.” 

Some of the nobles around her seem impressed, and she breathed an internal sigh of relief. The Marquise huffed, and poured another glass, offering it with a somewhat cold expression. “Then how about this, it’s produced by a rather charming man from Val Chevin. It’s called l'Arôme Délicieux d'une Floraison d'Été.” Her eyes were sharp as Meghan lifted the second glass to her lips.

This time, Meghan was careful to only take a sip, and it turned out to be very fortunate that she did. The strong floral taste nearly gagged her, and despite her best efforts, she jerked the wine away from her face like it had bitten her. She realized her misstep when she saw the wide eyes around her, and the satisfaction of the Marquise. Instantly irritated, Meghan put a hand to her breast, and summoned tears to her eyes. 

“By the Maker I-- I’ve never tasted its like!” Her tone was suitably dramatic, and she hastily set down the glass to take the Marquise’s hand, with the other still on her chest. “This is truly a momentous occasion, ma très chère. To think that I would wake up this morning so ignorant of the inimitable quality of such a rare vintage. There are simply no words that can accurately convey it. Surely if your Eminence were to taste it, you could give the wine its proper appraisal.” 

Suddenly the focus of every noble in the room, the Marquise froze. Her eyes darted from Meghan’s face to the wine, and realizing that she couldn’t refuse without insulting her, she pulled her hand free and gave Meghan an equally genuine smile. 

“But of course... if you insist.” 

As she poured the wine, Meghan caught a flash of motion behind her. Relief flooded her when she saw Fearchar peeking out from the perfectly trimmed hedges, giving her the signal that they were clear. The Marquise was already speaking, some jumbled nonsense about flowers and gently drifting down Rivière de l'Aube des Cantons-Loumance in the heart of spring, or some sodding Orlesian ridiculousness. 

“Your poetry renders me speechless.” She raised her voice, speaking over the tail end of the Marquise’s last sentence. “No wine could possibly follow the singular experience that we just shared. Let us meet next year under the arches of Pont de l'Islet-sur-Amboise and share another glass as a token of our new and abiding friendship. Alas, I must confess that the wine and pleasure of your company has overwhelmed me, and I must beg the forgiveness of yourself and those in attendance. Thank you for a most enlightening experience, your Eminence, and I bid you adieu.” She takes three paces backward, carefully overtly formal about the whole ordeal, and the shocked Marquise stammered out a farewell. Freed, Meghan turned on her heel and left as quickly as she dared, sweltering in the damn dress she was forced into, and comforted herself with the thought of cold, cheap ale.


End file.
